At the edge of the world,
no doubt is contained
in the wink of a star;
she is a broken sky.

She cries for night
when sun burns her back-
I feel her tears
under gray pillows of winter.

The rocks are warm and soft
on the edge of the world.
They lean over deep waters
chiseling their feet.

There is no sound
where the eagle flies
swiftly beneath
these broken skies.

The wind awakes the trees,
they speak for a moment-
but do we understand
what it is they say?

It's a matter of time-
as sands return to the sea...

The edge of the world,
there's a whisper,
translated by the trees
under the broken skies
where eagle's fly,
under winks' of stars,
over sands' of shores
returning to the sea-
it's a matter of time;

everything ends,
to start again.